


Dread Wolf Take You

by medievalfantasist



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-11-05 13:37:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17919833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/medievalfantasist/pseuds/medievalfantasist
Summary: The title sucks and I apologize.I also fiddled with continuity. But what else is fanfic for?I have a lot of Lavellan/Solas feels.





	Dread Wolf Take You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [adoxyinherear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/adoxyinherear/gifts).



> The title sucks and I apologize.
> 
> I also fiddled with continuity. But what else is fanfic for?
> 
> I have a lot of Lavellan/Solas feels.

I am standing naked in front of my wardrobe when he comes in. His presence is unmistakable, both for the nearly-barefoot padding of his footsteps and the wash of magical energy that accompanies him. He tries to keep it damped, but he is a blaze of green-and-gold, easily the most powerful mage I’ve ever met.

“Oh,” he says. “My apologies, Inquisitor.”

My back is to him, and I pick up the robe I’ve discarded to cover myself before turning around. My hair is still damp from the bath that washed away the sweat of battle.

“It’s good to see you, Solas.”

It’s an understatement. My skin hums from his nearness. I want nothing more than to close the distance between us, to press my lips to his and show him how much I missed him. But that would scare him away. Seducing this man is like taming a wild animal; small movements, gentle words, and extreme patience are all needed.

I lead him out onto the balcony. He’s always more comfortable in the open air, and the wind off the mountains helps to dry my hair.

“You look different,” he says, his eyes intense as he examines me. So the news hasn’t reached him yet. It’s a wonder; gossip usually spreads like wildfire through the Inquisition, especially among my friends. Varric and Dorian are the worst for it, but they all talk amongst themselves, sometimes as if I’m not standing right there.

“The Temple of Mythal was—” I have no words. It was breathtaking. A piece of Elvhen history. Yet another that the Dalish have lost.

“I wish I could have been there.”

It is not a rebuke, not quite, but I know he disapproves when I don’t include him on missions. But he can’t go everywhere with me, and I needed to keep my wits together in the Wilds and the Temple. He is a distraction—a pleasant one, but a distraction nonetheless.

His attention drifts, as it usually does, to the Anchor. He reaches out as if to touch my hand, then pulls back. Frustration rises in me, but I push it back down. Small movements. Extreme patience.

“What were you like?” he asks. “Before the Anchor?”

I raise an eyebrow. It’s an odd question, and not one I’m sure I can answer.

“Has it affected you in any way?” he asks. “Has it changed you?”

“How would I know?” I ask.

He gives me one of those enigmatic smiles, the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes while barely touching his lips. I have to force myself to look away from his mouth.

“You show a wisdom I have not seen since . . . since my deepest journeys into the ancient memories of the Fade.”

The hesitation tells me he’s lying. No, not lying. Prevaricating. Adjusting what he was going to say to match the story he’s been telling everyone about who he is. After my encounter in the Temple, I understand more than he knows.

“So what does this mean, Solas?” I ask.

“It means,” and his voice drops in register, thick and dark as old honey, “that I have not forgotten the kiss.”

My breath shudders out of my lungs, and I step toward him. “Good,” I say, tilting my head up to his. It’s an invitation, an expectation.

He’s close enough for me to feel him trembling, then he shakes his head very slightly and steps away.

_No._

I catch his arm. I can’t keep letting him walk away from me. It will drive me mad.

“Don’t go,” I whisper, and his shoulders slump, his head turning away.

“It would be kinder in the long run,” he says, almost to himself. “But losing you would—”

And he whirls, catching me in his arms, his head coming down, his mouth capturing mine. I let out a small sound of surprise that turns into a moan. He is a skilled kisser, adept with teeth and tongue, and I melt into him.

With a small gasp, he pulls away again, but I’m done waiting. I keep hold of his hand as he tries to leave.

“What part of _don’t go_ didn’t you understand?” I ask, infusing my voice with a teasing note.

“Inquisitor, I can’t . . . It wouldn’t be right. There are things you don’t know. It wouldn’t be fair.”

“Then tell me,” I say. I am testing him, and perhaps it’s not kind, but it’s necessary.

“There are things about my past. Things that nobody would understand.”

“Things,” I say. “Like you being Fen’Harel.”

If the circumstances weren’t so serious, I’d have enjoyed the look on his face, like someone had just hit him in the back of the head with a board. He sputters for a moment, then gathers himself. His aura, which had softened as we spoke, as we kissed, draws in, forming a protective shell.

“How?” he asks.

“I was the Keeper’s First,” I say. “The Dalish may have lost much, but do you think I could fail to recognize a god when I encounter him?”

He’s not convinced. I’m not surprised. I’ve borrowed his trick of prevaricating, of giving not the whole truth but not an actual lie. He’s better at it than I am.

“What happened at the Temple?” he asks. He’s caught on quicker than I anticipated.

“Corypheus was after the Well of Sorrows,” I say. “We had to keep it from him.”

“Oh.” It’s barely a breath. Understanding floods his face, and he reaches out to cup my face in one hand. The voices in my head whisper. Some of them don’t like him, but most rejoice in his presence.

“That was a very foolish thing to do, Inquisitor,” he says.

“Would you rather I’d given it to Morrigan?” I ask. “An Elvhen artifact, Elvhen magic, in the hands of a human mage?”

He doesn’t look happy about either option. “No.” His hand falls, but my cheek is still warm from his touch.

“I know who you are,” I say, “and I know what you’ve done, and it changes nothing. Well, almost nothing. It doesn’t change my feelings for you.”

His expression is nearly unreadable. It’s a blend of wonder, of confusion, of disappointment, of—dare I to hope—love.

“You are a remarkable woman,” he says.

I close the distance between us and kiss him again. This time, something is different. The iron control is melting, heat rising between us as from a forge. His hands grip my bottom, pull me into him, and I gasp. The top of my robe falls open, and his mouth is there, his tongue flicking along my collarbone. One hand comes up to untie the sash, the other still holding me firmly against him.

_Finally_. I’ve wanted this since our first trip into the Fade. Maybe before. Maybe as early as the first time he touched me, when he showed me how to close the rifts.

The robe puddles to the floor, and he lifts me, my legs wrapping around his waist as he carries me to the bed. My hand fists in the cord that holds the wolf-bone pendant, pulling him down with me.

His clothes are nearly as simple as mine to remove, and he is on me, and in me, in a ferocity of need and long-suppressed desire.

“ _Ma vhenan_ ,” he whispers, his mouth against my neck, and I shudder, arching against him.

_Yes,_ whisper the voices in my head, and I push them away. This is not theirs. This is for us, for all we have suffered, for all he has endured. Later, we will talk, I will get him to tell me his plans and we will decide whether the Inquisition can help with them.

But for now, it’s us, our breath mingling, my toes curling in the comforter, and a rhythm as old as the elves themselves.


End file.
